A Suitable Young Woman
by hiddenhibernian
Summary: Any sensible young wizard would stay away from Narcissa Black. Lucius, however, always had more audacity than sense.


**Thanks ever so much to my wonderful beta** **Híril, who always knows how to push me a little bit further. Any remaining mistakes are my own, do feel free to point them out if you see any. This was originally written for HP Shore of Angst on Livejournal.**

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 **A Suitable Young Woman**

 **-oOo-**

The streak of insanity ran through the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black as swift and strong as the river Thames, sweeping with it generation after generation into darkness. Even those who died sane did not escape its taint. Too many of their years were marked by the excesses of the afflicted, and fear they would be the next victim.

Notwithstanding the shadows of madness flittering in her wake, Narcissa Black was beautiful. As pure and pale as a magnolia flower, she shone in the ballrooms and assemblies like a lantern in the night.

They said you never could be certain. It came like a thief in the night, the madness, and even the sanest would succumb. Honoria Black had been the apple of her mother's eye, never putting a toe out of line, until the day it struck. She nailed her brother's head up next to the house-elves', for long and faithful service.

Lucius had seen them all, three seasons' worth of Rosiers and Prewetts, Fawleys and Shacklebolts, and had thought himself cursed to live in an era where coarse features and callow limbs had replaced the elegance of yore. Fresh out of Durmstrang, sent to the north as a sickly eleven-year-old to strengthen her lungs, Narcissa blinded him like a diamond unsheathed.

The suffering of the Blacks was a mystery. The strength of their bloodline should have protected them from disease, whether of body or mind. Those in the know would whisper about a powerful creature offended by an unwary Black ancestor centuries ago. Cygnus Black trawled the archives at Hogwarts and the Ministry, desperate to save his three young daughters, but all his efforts were in vain. That which has no name could not be cured.

Narcissa Black was unperturbed by her success, accepting compliments and slights from the jealous with the same cool demeanour. Lucius was intrigued, and despite himself, he was charmed by her rare blushes. Lacking the confidence of her middle sister and the insolence of her eldest, there was a becoming meekness to Narcissa. She was a powerful witch, as befitted her house, but she would not challenge her husband's place at the head of the household.

The Dark Arts were taught from the cradle in the House of Black. Woe betide the unwary who crossed them; even as schoolchildren, they wielded power far beyond their years. Other mothers would tut and shake their heads at the thought of whispering Dark curses into the ears of their little ones. The Blacks considered it an integral part of their education, regarding the risks as a way to weed out the weak. Was there any wonder so many of them succumbed to the lure of the darkness?

Narcissa did not speak much, but Lucius found himself straining to hear every word. She sent Victor Flint packing with his ears burning with merely a sentence of disdain, to Lucius' silent approval, and she didn't hesitate to make her opinion of the inflamed question of Squib Rights known to the Minister, in the guise of polite conversation.

Other houses, like the Malfoys, looked to the Continent for influences and matches for their heirs. The Blacks turned inwards, their roots firmly planted in British soil. They had been there since the time of the Druids, their dark legacy woven from blood sacrifice and poisonous native plants. Longevity had its price – change did not come easily to them, even on the path to ruin.

The first gift Lucius sent Narcissa was returned unopened. He stared at the exquisite scarab, rare enough to tempt any witch, and rapidly revised his strategy. A formal application to court her – made in the teeth of his own father's disapproval – yielded better results, although she still gave no indication of her opinion of him.

Lucius knew he was her perfect match, the most eligible wizard of their generation, but he became irrationally obsessed by making her desperate for his attentions. Narcissa continued to be desired by many and seemingly untouched by passion herself – as befitted her sex and station. Yet, Lucius couldn't help picturing how to make her more than blush, breaking her out of her self-contained shell to expose the naked skin underneath.

For the first time, he appreciated there was more to seduction than the flesh.

Once, the Blacks had scorned foreign intruders like the Malfoys. Of late, worthier opponents like the Muggle interlopers threatening to overrun their world with every generation had drawn their ire. The quest for purity never ceased; generation after generation pruned the bloodline to keep the stain at bay. With renegades and blood traitors increasing with every degenerate decade, the House of Black could not afford to cast off those who stayed true. As long as the family name was carried on, they had tolerated forays into what ordinary mortals called insanity with equanimity for centuries.

Lucius mounted his campaign, obsessed by conquest and rarely contemplating the logical conclusion. The day she smiled, unprompted, to greet him, stretching her thin pale hand out towards his, he suddenly realised he was perilously close to committing himself, both in Narcissa's eyes and those of the world.

There was still time. No public declarations had been made, and her sister's recent elopement fortuitously provided a convenient excuse to privately withdraw his attentions. Soon, the gossips would link their names, and he would be forced to act. Yet, Lucius preferred to dwell in the bubble of his own making, a charmed sphere where the featherlight touch of a delicate finger set his skin alight .

Two of their own generation had already fallen to disgrace. Sirius, Narcissa's cousin, started on the path to ruin on his first day at Hogwarts, flaunting his deviance from the hallowed customs of his ancestors with every act since then. Dissolution was written on every bone in his feckless body – his descent into the ancestral ill was only a matter of time. Harder to fathom was her sister's recent defection. The pattern of a dutiful, if dull, daughter, Andromeda had failed to inspire Lucius with anything other than boredom before her moonlit flight.

A wise man would extract himself while he still could.

She was so very beautiful, all that a woman ought to be but seldom was. Surely the flower of youth would protect her from the curse of her house? And if not, the Blacks rarely lived long lives.

Lucius insisted, despite his father's disapproval and his mother's tears, and he got his way. The most beautiful flower in the midnight garden was his, as was its poisoned nectar.

In his arrogance, he had failed to consider the stain of madness spreading to the next generation. His son's narrow chin and cloud-pale eyes were constant reminders that he was half Black by nature, if not in name. Lucius counted the cost of his folly in the years following the birth of his son, ever-present worry the price for his conceit.

His Narcissa was truly a prize; not the reward he had once expected, but a jewel whose worth surpassed everything his younger self had thought made him deserve her. Lucius would sacrifice his fortune, his name and his pride to keep her safe and happy, but he was powerless against the curse of the darkness. Draco's Malfoy blood diluted the menace somewhat; Narcissa had no such protection.

And yet, the very nature of his love meant there could be no regrets. With every passing year, his once high opinion of himself was eroded by fear and failings, but Narcissa suffered no such devaluation. She remained his heart and soul, and it was to her the father and son turned when their world was cracking from side to side.

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Draco had been lost in the fighting hours ago. Lucius and Narcissa, both wandless, were tied to the Dark Lord's side, unable to search for their son in the wake of giants and Acromantulas. When the Potter boy and the Dark Lord both collapsed at once, Lucius found that he didn't care if neither of them ever woke up again.

Let them be done with this folly; let there be quiet and peace again, no matter who claimed the victory. Lucius had lost his master's favour; he didn't expect the boy's elders to treat him with any greater clemency should they win. He suddenly felt old and weary, the shadow of his poor choices catching up with him.

All that mattered now was Draco; he was the only future they had left.

And Narcissa – when the Dark Lord ordered her to come forward, Lucius wanted to cry out to stop her, but he didn't dare for fear their master would punish them both. He closed his eyes as she bent down to touch the lifeless boy, only releasing his withheld breath as she proclaimed him dead.

The Dark Lord had won, yet victory brought Lucius no joy.

He caught Narcissa in his arms as she was allowed to return to the ranks, drawing a lungful of the sweet scent of her hair. She squeezed his hand, hard. Marching towards the castle to claim the spoils of victory was not a time to share confidences, but Lucius prepared himself for the unexpected – as much as he was able.

There was no sign of Draco among their opponents streaming out of the castle to face their conqueror. Lucius, anxiously scanning the fallen bodies behind the enemy lines, was taken by surprise when the fighting erupted again. Narcissa held on to him amidst the chaos, and together they ran, looking everywhere for a pale head and grey, troubled eyes.

They were carried into the Great Hall on the tide of the fighters, seeking cover in an alcove as the resurrected Potter boy chose words rather than magic to fight the Dark Lord. When Draco's name and lost wand took centre stage, Lucius struggled to restrain Narcissa. He, too, saw only too clearly that Potter's second demise would shortly be followed by Draco's, but he wasn't going to allow her to waste her life on a vain attempt to stop it.

Then the Dark Lord fell as morning broke over Hogwarts, and in the blazing light of the rising sun Draco came back to them, charging across the floor from his hiding place behind a pillar.

It was over at last.

Narcissa told them of her deception, how choosing the least bad option in her moment of despair had led to a scrawny boy prevailing against all hope.

Lucius watched her stroking their son's hair, caring little about the defeat of the army he had pledged his loyalty to. With a jolt, he realised Draco would be free now, free to make his own mistakes without answering a master's bidding. Lucius turned his own wrist to check; he still carried the Mark, but the malevolent magic he had felt pulsating in his veins for decades was gone.

He looked at Narcissa, unmarked as ever by the trials of living, and wondered if Dumbledore's gibbering had been true. Perhaps there was power in love, power that no darkness could withstand. He had feared the madness of the Blacks, only to allow his own conceit to lead his family to the brink of ruin.

Lucius found no solace in his newfound humility, but even in the ruins of his glory he found he was grateful as the sun rose over Hogwarts. There would be a tomorrow, and Narcissa and Draco would be there with him. Even without a Knut to his name, Lucius would be richer than most wizards, and that would suffice.

 **THE END**


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